


The Profane Art of Sacred Lies

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Renaissance, Theological Fantasy, mythological monsters, patronage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storm is the Prophet in Genosha in Rome when Cardinal Charles Xavier becomes the patron and unwitting muse of an unknown artist named Erik Lehnsherr. Charles has great hopes for Erik but Erik has hopes that go beyond art, and he wants Charles to help him.</p><p>Fantasy AU, set in a world where most mutants are part of a fantasy-Renaissance church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/gifts).



-=-=

The lauds had just completed, the early morning sun broke through the clerestory and bathed the velvets, the brocades, and the dark furniture in a wash of pale golden light, but the servants were already walking to and fro quickly through the many corridors and rooms in the palazzo.

"He’s been a terror," Charles said to his sister, as he was being divested of his heavy garments of office. Then the curtains caught on fire and an older acolyte unbuttoning Charles' short cape froze the fabric without a backward glance.

Charles sighed as Scott guiltily resumed lighting the taper with the long match instead of with his eyes. "My steward insists it's more economical if Scott goes to his brother Alexander given the similar nature of their gifts, but Alexander is at Ostia and the Spanish dragons are seen circling the coasts again."

"That's only because the Spanish are still resentful Storm didn't crown their choice as king in Portugal. Nothing will come of it."

Charles cast his eyes heavenward where fresco of winged youths cavorting among plump clouds met his gaze. "But I'm still not sending Scott over where dragons might be maneuvering and an ecclesiastical entourage would likely just have them spreading rumours of warmongering."

"You can always recommend recalling Alexander to Genosha," Raven said as Scott’s eyes briefly glowed again. “Storm could see the necessity when you persuade her.”

Charles stretched out his arms as his red cassock was removed and replaced with a simpler version in white and a red belt was fastened around his waist.

"We've received good reports of Alexander in Ostia. The people trust him and the Sea-Farers have not made any trouble." Charles dismissed the acolytes with a gesture of blessing and turned toward Raven.

"Now then, let's go. There's a much more promising sort of rumours about this particular workshop."

Raven shook her head. "I don't know why you bother with this. Emma patronizes the artists, you are patron to the natural philosophers. Why should it change?"

"My dear sister," Charles said, "I argued that philosophy is an art as the ancients have originally intended. She disagreed. So what is the best way to win my argument than to present my ability to recognize the best artists as well as the best philosophers?"

-=-=

Sixteen hundred years of history had seen human empires rise and fall while the church endured. The Sacred Enclave convened in Genosha in Rome where the Head of Church, the Prophet, stood above the Tripod, and represented the authority of the divine on Earth with demonstration of the greatest measure of the omnipotent god through manifestation through the gifts given to the little children by an Incarnate, who had awakened mortal souls to further mastery of the earth as an echo of faith in the greater world beyond death.

At the time of Storm’s accession to the seat of the Prophet, the Church in Genosha was at its zenith in both cultural and political influence. The Church crowned kings. Even the Spanish, who held the largest army of dragons among all the nations of faith, preferred Storm’s blessing rather than her censure.

Despite the threat of wars and the strain between the human political powers of Europe and the church, the city was filled with artists and artisans hoping to find recognition and patronage. Every common citizen in Genosha was a critic for any new public commission and both the wealthy lay humans and the Gifted churchmen vied to patronize the best artists.

Unlike many of the others in the college of cardinals, Charles had been born and bred in the city. His telepathy showed and was identified early. At a year old, his own father offered him to the church along with a kitchen girl's newborn daughter, her skin already the deep blue of lapis lazuli. Perhaps Raven was Charles' sister by blood as he called her, but it hardly mattered. The sacred protection of the church transcended secular shames and concerns. They were the chosen. Charles and Raven’s powers increased with age and thus so their ranks within the hierarchy of the church.

It was shorter journey to ride horses to the edge of the city than by litter. When they arrived, they were led to where refreshments had been prepared. Then Raven admired the pieces in the workshop. She transformed to mimic the complicated statues-- sometimes figures of two or three-- in front a group of astonished apprentices. While those of the church were all gifted in some way, those above the rank of archdeacon seldom had abilities that could be displayed casually or would be so particularly interesting to people whose works was to shape and mold.

After thanking their hosts graciously for the tour, Charles commissioned a few pieces before silently conveying to Raven that he had not come to find what he sought. The young artist who had been a pupil of Giambologna showed all the same elegance and beauty in his sculptures as his teacher but none of the intensity movement in his art Charles had been led to expect. The information he received at the saloons where the courtesans had his sponsorship were perhaps as much hearsay as much as flattery and amusement.

Charles had still been sighing a little when he spied small bronze, barely the size of a fist, acting as a paperweight atop of a pile of sketches.

Charles took it up and studied it. The details were minuscule, surely impossible to mold and yet, for all that- the complexities of the arrangement of limbs, the textural differences between hair and metal and flesh and even water were all plainly visible- Poseidon rising the sea, waves cresting to horses- suggested so triumphantly and powerfully that Charles felt smaller than it all though he held the piece in his hand.

"And who's the author of this?" he inquired of the master, his thoughts already searching the minds in the shop.

Surprisingly, neither delight nor embarrassment answered. He caught a glimpse of guilt instead. "A friend, then," he mused, going to one of the apprentices, smiling at the gawky youth. "Who's Erik?"

Erik chose at that moment to enter with a basket of paints. He was still an apprentice, though perhaps he was old as Charles, even older perhaps. And because Charles had been casting out his mind through the shop, Charles knew, with a sudden elation and fear all at once, that Erik was Gifted and Erik had never been found by the church.

"How much to release him from his contract?" he asked calmly,giving a measure of tranquility for the master of the workshop, too, who was angry at even the amount of small metal used, the trespasses of an apprentice's work when Erik should only still be sketching. And peripherally, Charles felt the haze of Raven’s curiosity..

"I'm not a slave to be bought and sold," Erik said. He took another step and the stitching on his tunic caught Charles' eye. The zig-zag pattern brought to mind a vision of a sail being repaired, and with it an image of the sea, and a glimpse of dark shape beneath the waves-

"Charles!" Raven's frantic voice of his given name woke him. Charles realised he had sunk himself into Eriks mind unaware. Erik was staring at him, equally surprised. It had been such a long time since Charles had lost control that the embarrassment prompted him to hold all the human minds around him still.

"What did you do?" Erik asked, “your Eminence,” he added belatedly, spotting for the first time the scarlet trimmings on Charles clothes, though more wary than respectful. And his question was impertinent.

"Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles said. “I am Cardinal Xavier and I’m here to offer you patronage.”

"Him? Char- Cardinal Xavier?” Raven turned to Charles, indignant. 

"I'm only an apprentice,” Erik said. “Not even a journeyman. You know nothing about me."

"Erik," Charles said. "I know everything about you that matters." He held up the sculpture and said softly, "This is remarkable. Your master do not let you near metalwork. And yet, you did not need wax for the mold, and you did not need fire for the casting....Even an apprentice might have a patron in Genosha and you, I think, have a need more than most."

Raven gasped. An undiscovered gift had two possibilities: a late manifestation, which happened rarely except in the most subtle of gifts, which manipulation of elements would discount, or that he was one of the Sea-Farers, a people banned from entering Genosha. None of them had ever applied for entry in living memory.

"So if I refuse you will have me tried executed by the Consistorial Courts?"

“Genosha is the bishopric of the Prophet Storm,” Raven answered angrily, “the church does not execute the innocent. Who had been spreading such lies? We counsel those who-”

Charles put up a forestalling hand. Raven fell silent. "No one will remember this if you refuse,’ he said to Erik. “If you accept my patronage, your life and deeds are my responsibility. Yes, even your presence, and you shall learn all what our glorious city has to offer for one of your talents. I know what your art means to you and I mean to recover at least a little what you have given up."

Raven crossed her arms, eyes flickering to Erik's ears, as if trying to see the rings that rumors told all Sea-Farers wore.

"In return-"

"You've been in Genosha for a while, Erik." Charles smiled brightly, sensing an agreement. "Whatever patrons ask of their artists, I ask of you. That is all."

-=-=

It would've been a scandal to patronize a new apprentice if Erik's old master had not been left with a pleasant memory and a vague recollection whenever Erik's name was mentioned. Erik was a treasure and Charles intended to keep Erik's presence a secret until he could fulfill the promises that a lack of teachers and resources had so far deprived him.

"Like leaving a fruit to ripen before plucking," Raven laughed before she returned to her new bishopric. "A prickly fruit, nevertheless, he is as lovely as one painted by Caravaggio. I look forward to words of his success. Don't be more scandalous than you already are."

"As long as I don't do anything you do," Charles retorted. "Take care of yourself. Remember to write and-"

"And don't go looking for unicorns," Raven chorused. "I know, my brother. I can't outrun one."

There were no unicorns, dragons or any of the powerful beasts that the humans had not tamed and bred to cultivate to the utmost a natural repugnance of those of the church. Genosha was the only city without the presence of those monsters.

Only in Genosha City did the Gifted felt truly safe.

“So you see, Erik, the church protects what it could. It gathers those of us charged with the sacred duty to honor and upheld the tenets of our faith and the grace of our Gifts.”

Summers tended to be humid and hot, but it was cool beneath the shade of loggia where lunch had been set out. Surrounded by the perfume of orange blossoms that edged the courtyard against the sound of the fountain, yet the serenity of the world paled against the comfort Erik's companionship.

“And yet you take children from their parents and homes. I do not see much honor or grace in that.”

“A child reared in the church is educated both in the use of their Gifts and any other abilities, given the same privileges as any noble born, regardless of gender or the parents’ station," Charles said. Erik had a face that could easily be fierce and martial, but even arguing with him, Charles only thought his eyes kind. "There are beggars even in this glorious city, but none of them would be those chosen to manifest miracles.”

Erik twisted a grape off its stem. “There are beggars in Rome while you pay an exorbitant sum for these these plates, this tablecloth.” The fruit rolled from his hand as he smoothed his thumb over the fabric peeking between the porcelain.

“And to keep you in paints and metal,” Charles returned, studying Erik’s fingers tracing over the embroidery and said, “for the rent of your studio, your entrance fees to the demonstrations and viewings." It was the usual practise of patrons to pay for the upkeep of the artist they intend to cultivate, after all. "And if not you, my friend, then others. I have an income , true, but the taxes paid allow us time to cultivate our Gifts and we use whatever we have to better the circumstances of all men, especially those practising arts, whose gifts are as wondrous and marvelous as any churchman."

A shadow passed over Erik's face, but it was gone quickly.

"No Prophet has ever had the unique powers of creation except that of like men," Charles continued. "For all that we produce phenomena beyond philosophy on earth, we manipulate only what is created and what has already been. We are the moved, not the mover. To be able to create beauty is rarer than even a Gift. To witness the creation of art is to be present in the divine dynamism. And more, the artists give us beauty could be glimpsed even on earth, a shadow of heaven that could be.”

Erik smiled then. “Do you mean to tell me that every time you come into my studio and watch me sketch or sculpt, you seek the divine?”

Charles lowered his eyes, blushed, and hoped that the weather had been hot enough that the blush would go unnoticed on his skin. He took another spoonful of his sherbet, slow, and let the ice cool the warmth that Erik’s words brought to his face. A mocking tone could be a teasing one, but Charles did not know enough of Erik yet to be certain and did not wish to let his Gift to seek the truth not for fear of the knowledge, but what he might do with it.

It wasn't until Raven reminded him that Charles realised that Erik was uncommonly handsome, but then the thought stayed.

Changed out of the roughspun tunic and leggings into a fine shirt, a light-weight doublet of damask, pourpoint and hose, more suitable for someone of a cardinal's household, the first night Charles saw Erik alone at dinner was somewhat of a revelation except it was reality that seemed that dimmed and dream that came to the fore with every day that passed.

The tailored clothes revealed the breadth of Erik's shoulders, the slenderness of his waist and a wiry torso without thinness. Erik had a handsome well-defined face, with a broad brow, a straight nose and fine green eyes beneath sweep of eyelashes that could make him seem to turn from anger to shyness in a moment. He had cheekbones which cast their own shadow and a quiet mouth ascetic in a way that made all his smiles startling in their brilliance.

And so it was only a month before Charles no longer looked forward to the debates with his philosophers or the subtle and obvious politicking with his fellows with as much enjoyment as he had in the past.

He no longer knew the latest fashions in verse, the answers to all the courtesans’ latest riddles. He knew the hour by the reddish gleam on Erik's strong jaw. He memorized the lines at the corner of his eyes, and the almost undetectable quirks of speech and accent that his church deemed to come from a corrupt people, thus forbidden to set foot in the city.

Yet when Erik smiled, and Charles' world went silent. He thought of divine, thought of joy, the evangelium on earth and the poignancy of mortality that allowed only glimpses of an eternal happiness.

He had no answer for Erik. All his wits had deserted him because Erik had asked, on purpose or unwittingly, a question that Charles could not answer without considering himself desiring to commit a sacrilege. Erik was beautiful. Charles desired him, but surely not at the cost of his art, or violating the trust that was between patrons and artists.

"I do not believe in a heaven beyond death," Erik said eventually. "Why should any beauty or happiness on this earth be merely a mockery, a tease, or a taunt from a god known for mercy? There is only this earth, this life, this chance for every satisfaction we should seek. Is it heresy to think so, cardinal?"

Mercy was an odd choice of word. It implied forgiveness entirely, not merely leniency.

“The only true heresy in this church,” Charles said slowly, “is to be false: in thought, in word, or in action.”

“And I suppose you know all about it, since you read thoughts and see our actions and know all the differences.”

Charles hesitated for a moment then said, “Erik, I don’t read your thoughts.”

Erik eyes flickered up to meet his. He leaned in a little, his hand reached out and touch, very lightly, the curve of Charles’ face. Charles held his breath, neither leaning in nor moving away. Erik’s palm was warm and slightly calloused, then rough pad of his thumb moved and touched lightly the dip below Charles’ nether lip. Charles parted his mouth, his tongue darted out and tasted suddenly the the lingering sweetness of grape.

“I-”

Charles, for the first time in his life, held time still for himself instead of others. When the moment ended, across from him, the seat was empty. Erik was gone.

-=-=


	2. Chapter 2

-=-=

The Apostolic Palace housed the Prophet’s apartments as well as various offices of the church. It had been a tiresome afternoon. There had a been a drought requiring Storm’s presence and others who could aid with vegetation and engineering of a new irrigation. All their duties had to be redistributed.

Afterwards, Charles was going over a rather minor point of canon law regarding responsibility of the church for nations warring with dragonfire when a familiar blonde figure glided into view.

"I hear you've a sweet secret, Cardinal Xavier."

Charles had known Emma Frost almost from the cradle. She had been the only other telepath in the same age cohort. His thoughts would’ve been enmeshed in hers had not she developed a secondary mutation on her second birthday, effectively severing a burgeoning bond and allowing them to pursue individual mischief for a period of time which their minders still recalled with pained grimaces.

After all, it was terribly undignified for foreign ambassadors to think themselves as horses and cats. Diplomatic disasters, averted by the grace that they were cherubic babies.

Thankfully,their growing powers curtailed their mischieves as awareness and understanding outstripped childishness. Only one persisted- they each had one rival: each other.

"What secret?” Azazel said, looking sidelong at Charles. “You telepaths are always keeping secrets, one way or another.”

“But this is different. It gives him intense pleasure, for now.”

Emma was enjoying the attention. Even standing with Azazel, severe in his black robes, she was a vibrant figure in scarlet and caught attention easily. Charles wouldn’t wonder that she was gathering them to herself. People were migrating toward her from the corridors.

“Charles is keeping a journeyman he picked up from nowhere.” In fact, she paused dramatically, “I’ve heard that he was not a journeyman at all. None of the guilds recognize him. A foreigner, Charles? What would local artists think?”

Charles scoffed. “Everyone knows your preference is for Richards, and he’s not even from the continent. He’s an Englishman.”

“Cavalier Richards is recognized by all the guilds in Genosha as a master sculptor and painter whereas your foreigner, Cardinal Xavier, is attending workshops under different assumed names, so discreet that he does not even use your name. He is _lovely_ to look at, however, and dressed very well, so perhaps that ‘s recommendation for your taste in that particular, if nothing else.“ She laughed, her audience amused with her.

So she had been spying on Erik. Charles hadn’t asked Erik to use different names, but of course Frost would’ve recognized his mind no matter what name he wore. She must’ve heard from Richards or the other artists in her circle and perhaps even went to spy on him personally.

Charles tamped down a flare of jealousy.Even in cognito Emma Frost was not a forgettable figure. In her first adolescence, she was notorious for roaming the city in a white dress, letting young men and several unfortunate elder gentlemen follow her about and giving her gifts as if was a courtesan.

“Tell us then, who is he, where did you find him? Do you really think he alone would allow you to win our argument? Art belongs to artists, not philosophers, Cardinal Xavier.” She had undoubtedly seen Erik. And yet, Erik had no mention of her.

“There’s no art without meaning, Cardinal Frost.” Charles was stiffly polite, his thoughts and face determinedly shielded in courtesy. “Even a diamond, no matter how beautifully set, is only a bauble if no one gives it value. No pretty picture is beautiful without poetry. It would only then be the work of a man reducing himself to mere mechanics, a machine exercising neither judgement nor thought.”

Frost narrowed her eyes. “A pretty picture is admired, Charles. A diamond is precious. Your precious philosophy is a consequence, not cause. A lovely face, in concert with a lovely body however, can induce-”

All her arguments were old, except the last. Charles caught her thought before her words, which were merely meant for her audience. The images flew through his mind- the teasing drape of muslin over a naked body progressed to the sheen of sweat on flushed skin, a glimpse of shadows between familiar thighs, spreading slowly apart- Charles hands curled into fists. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of them and now he did not know which were hers and which were his, or all of it imaginary or worse, memories. He pretended the mockery for another and sharpened and turned it outward. Emma’s skin began to take on a crystalline shine in response.

They were interrupted by percussive steps of boots through the corridor and then rising voices. Logan was arguing with the major domo again. The slam of heavy double door at the end ofthe hall made several people jump.

“What is this? Act Two of a new dramedy? What are all these people doing here?” People began to scatter. “There’s news of hippocampi nesting on the shores of Hammer Bay. I come back after six months and you’re both _still_ arguing over who has more pretty toys?” Logan came in, travel stained and trekking dirt.

“Hippocampi?” A voice piped up behind Emma. Warren Worthington, the third of his name, was born in Genosha and never ventured past its borders and should not before he learned how to outfly feral dragons. Realising he had spoken without being asked, he dropped his eyes.

“The monsters that tow the ships of the Sea-Farers,” Scott said breathlessly. “They’re huge serpents, with teeth as long as your wings, dripping green poison. They rear up from waves and pluck birds from the sky to eat.”

“You’ve seen them!”

Logan cuffed Scott on the head. “Don’t go spreading rumors. Hippocampi look half-horse. It’s in the name. Where’s your Greek, Warren, when it’s useful?”

“Do they Sea-Farers not have Gifted?” Warren asked, confused. “How could they bear to be near them.”

Logan shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t. The Sea-Farers are banned from entering Genosha by Prophet Shaw on pain of death. They’ve been banned from Genosha for over five centuries,”

“Why?”

“They could not be parted from their hippocampi monsters. Genosha must protect itself.” Emma answered brusquely. “Now run along children, call for the members of the curia to meet.” She made a moue of distaste and turned to Logan. “You could’ve at least washed before entering.”

Logan let out a sharp laugh. “And suffer a headache while you and Xavier fight like you are still five? Cardinal Frost, you underestimate my timing and overestimate your own eloquence. What is art and philosophy when there are monsters at our door?”

“Then it’s for you to rout the monsters quickly and so we can resume more civilized discussions, General.”

Charles sighed. Storm and all those who could command the weather were away. It was a six weeks’ journey from Genosha City to Hammer Bay.

“Are you sure they’re hippocampi nests?” he asked.

“As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve never seen one,” Logan answered warily, “but those are not dragon eggs. What other creatures do you know that lay their eggs close to shore?” His face darkened. “And there are no wild hippocampi.”

Nesting of the hippocampi on Genosha soil tantamount to a declaration of war by the Sea-Farers. But why now? To what end? There had been ambitious men who had felt no qualms about commanding dragons to burn house and crops. And yet, the hippocampi were creatures only of the sea and Genosha had not maritime interests. Their relations was a more violent one on paper.

“Nonetheless,” Charles thought of Erik did not continue as the session was called to begin.

As soon as Logan delivered his news, there were calls to destroy the eggs. Azazel and the other teleporters were available. Except, as Logan reminded them, if they were wild, and even if they were not, all young monsters deserve life. Responsibility lies upon those with souls.

“Will we declare war on the Sea-Farers? Make war at sea?” Azazel spoke, looking amiable when it was his turn, though his tail was swishing. “Or shall we ask Bishop Raven Xavier why she had not told us sooner or shown General Logan the site before he stumbled upon it himself?”

Eyes turned to Charles and upon Emma’s face dawned a sudden suspicion that Charles did not care to know.

Charles argued. There were no live monsters in Genoshan territories. Even what texts they have available may be outdated because the Prophet Shaw had banned the books as well. For all they know, the eggs could be simply a new breed of dragons or any other oviparous species. The Prophet was away from her place. They have no authority to declare war. Human scholars would have to be sent.

“Human scholars,” Emma mocked him silently, as they exited, “or perhaps we can just send your lovely artist.”

-=-=

The were stars still glimmering on the purplish horizon. The city was quiet except for the patter of steps as runners, vendors and shopboys prepared for the morning. Charles sneaked through his own palazzo in linen breeches and a loose tunic with a scarf round his waist, head lowered, avoiding the main hallways as he headed to the kitchens and guiltily picked up a tray pretending to be his own servant.

The house was still mostly asleep, dark enough that Charles was careful as he made his way through the corridors to Erik's apartment and workshop with a tray of breakfast carefully balanced in his hands. He would be early enough today, he thought.

He entered quietly. Erik stood with his back toward him, the wide neck of his thin shirt exposing the muscles of his shoulders, the long elegant line of his back pale as moonlight and as maddening. Charles lost his breath, closed his eyes until the image burned his mind, then opened them again to see Erik raising his hands and the wall at the other end seemed to shimmer and writhe.

The air began to smell as if Storm would be summoning lightning, but Erik called forth instead pieces of copper and tin, already melding together to form bronze and it seemed that Erik was calling a living figure from within. Out of the metal emerged a hand, an arm, a shoulder-

Their conversation under the shade of orange blossoms came drifting back as if from another lifetime or dimension, but creation was _like_ genesis and Erik, struck by the first rays of sun through the clouds, tinting his auburn hair to red, if not divine, as godlike as any of the heroes of myth. Charles knew himself confused and did not care. All demonstrations of the Gift amazed him, filled with him the awe that was both wonder and fear.

The church’s business had turned martial and confusing of late- rumors of war excited the young and those with more aggressive powers. Those with more history knew that it would still be the human men who would fight for the church, flesh and blood and bravery augmented merely by metal.

According to certain tenets, monsters of the world were those of higher order than animals of nature and had an awareness of the miracles of God and hated all those with the Gift for it reminded them that they had no eternity in heaven. Charles thought such philosophical musing unlikely given the level of intelligence for creatures that sometimes could be herded like sheep, but he had made no special study of the subject. However, he knew, contrary to belief, that Sea-Farers do have those with the gift among them.

Charles had offered his telepathy to Erik as he had to the students under his protection but none of them had ever such raw power as Erik had.

Even without Charles’ guidance, Erik could stop entire armies with a gesture, disarm men and dismantle cannons. He could lead the Sea-Farers to overwhelm the sea-fortresses and strangle men and beasts with metal. And yet, he had chosen to come to Genosha as..no one.

In Genosha, indeed, all over Rome, to become a master artist, there were strict rules of training, but Erik knew nothing of stone or use of wax or plaster molds. Charles had seen Erik’s sketches and saw the frustrated intensity in the lines; they had held enough promise to obtain him an apprenticeship even when he was too old to start one. And if he was not allowed the use of his Gift for art-- for no churchmen had ever trained for this inclination-- it would’ve been a decade before he obtained the skill required to secure his own commision. If indeed such belated practice would ever match would was already as natural as breathing.

The formless metal began to take a more refined shape as Erik drew closer, curving his long hands upon the metal and they smoothed and yielded beneath his touch as if they were flesh.

Twilight fell on the sculpture. It was an embrace of lovers-- clinging against the great deluge: there was an arm around a slender waist, a hand tight upon a shoulder, in profile, the expression was surprised- mouths parted for a gasp or a kiss.

Charles itched with curiosity to see their faces. He approached with his tray cautiously.

“Leave it,” Erik said, not pausing from his work.

His voice startled Charles, who began to withdraw. He did not wish to explain to Erik why he was clothed as he was, or lurking in the dark as he watched him. But then Erik turned and Charles stepped into the shadow, half-tempted to veil himself from Erik’s thoughts altogether, then Erik turned.

“Stay.”

And if it was Erik who could command body with words, Charles stayed, frantic explanation ready on his lips to avoid the the truth. He had not come to Erik’s studio for a while. He could not, not when he debated war with Erik’s people during the day and desired him whenever he saw him. Logan’s words lingered and Erik had made his feelings on being considered a possession known upon their first meeting. But as the arguments mounted in the church, all of Charles feelings was to keep Erik with him, keep him safe.

Erik stepped away, Charles turned his head and saw as that one of the figure was a woman, the lines of her face achingly familiar. 

Charles was so shocked by the anger he was feeling that he almost didn’t feel the first tentative touch on his ankle. He looked down and saw Erik’s hand closed around his lower leg through the thin cloth. Erik wasn’t looking at him. Charles only saw a tangle of tousled hair, the upcurl of his lashes, the point of a nose.

“Tell me if it’s not all right,” Erik murmured.

The hand began trail upwards from the soft shoes. Charles remained silent, every muscle tense as Erik’s hand stretched open, followed the line of calf, the back of his knees. Then tips of his finger lingered over the convex of Charles knees, the taut lines around them.The light was low through the windows. In the stillness, Charles heard only his own heartbeat Erik’s faint, exact breathing.

Then Charles released a tendril of a question in thought and realised that Erik didn’t know it was him. He couldn’t. Charles’ profile was half in shadow. Erik thought of sinews and muscles- “Stop,” Charles strangled out, snapping the thread of arousal that had started winding low in his spine.

The hand stopped their torturous movement.

“I’m sorry,” Erik said, still looking at the ground. He flexed his hand, opening and closing them. Then, without looking up, said, “You may go.”

Charles fled.

It was still early enough that he would still be expected in bed. He threw his disguise into the laundry and threw himself into bed. The sheets were cool against his heated flesh. Charles let himself see again the sight of the top of Erik’s head, the way his hand had lingered over his legs and imagine if the hand had moved further upwards, that there was no barrier of clothes between them. If he closed his eyes- Charles took himself in hand and refused to remember that one of the figure Erik had drew from metal that morning had been Emma Frost.

-=-=

“Cardinal Xavier, are you falling asleep?” Emma her voice pitched just so that only Charles heard her, settled down next to him at the table. Storm had returned that same day and temporarily, at least, preparations of St. Irene’s festival was taking precedence while the higher echelons of church continued to meet, and discuss and argued. Storm had issued that the human monarchies intentions be ascertained and the scholars return before committing to more drastic action.

"I wish I could sleep,” Charles said moodily. His dreams were terrible: water aflame as if beset with Greek fire. Then the sky, too, was burning.

It was better that he sat among crowds, let their thoughts occupy his. Sean was throwing his voice, at first amusingly daring, the songs were turning unashamedly erotic by the hour. It pleased the Genoshans. At least, for the night. The day would be different.

The, the effect was beautifully distracting. He hadn’t even heard Emma until she had spoken aloud.

“Your artist is gathering attention to himself,” Emma continued, nibbling on a fig. “He’s catching quite a few pairs of eyes lately. You don’t mind him taking on others, do you?”

“I believe he should do exactly as he likes. I’m his patron, not his keeper, and you know I believe in freedom of thought.” Charles gestured for his glass to be refilled then emptied it in the next movement.

“The question is, though a delicate one it might be, is he or isn’t he?”

“What are you on about?”

She smiled and gestured below the balcony. “He’ll be here, of course, amidst all the revelers and no one would know if he, say, slipped a knife-”

Charles huffed back laughter. If Erik wanted to slip a knife or any metallic object anywhere, who would stop him? “What are you implying? Choose your words, carefully, your Eminence.”

“Is he a spy, Charles?”

“I’m a telepath.”

“The last time you were so frustrated you were seventeen and just learned what a vow of celibacy meant.”

The church transcended and did not recognize human laws. Charles had realised he would never be able to offer Moira what she deserved- a house, a home, a good name. He saluted Emma with his empty wineglass. “Courtesans and bastards. Incidentally, of which Erik is neither.”

“Charles, you’re distracted by him. You’ve lost your head. You are not reading his mind, Charles. Why is he here? He dreams of monsters.”

“So you’ve seen his dreams,” Charles whispered, half to himself, wondering if Emma knew of Erik’s illegal presence and whether she was even now testing him. After all, she would have no qualms entering Erik’s head. “I should’ve expected. Patronage is an odd burden, Emma. I supply all that is necessary for his well-being. I become known for my recognition of his art. And yet, for all the favours I would give him he would not wear mine when he sleeps with you.”

“With me?” Emma said, astonished. “He’s yours. You’ve made that quite clear and I do not care for your leavings. Everyone’s seen his dreams: dragons fly in the background of his panels, unicorns lurk in the forests. There are dangers in all his details. Do you not see his work? I’ve heard stories of your generous patronage for your philosophers and mathematicians, but in art, usually, the patron has a say on the theme or even work produced.”

The indignity on behalf of Erik referred to as a “leaving” warred with the mystery of the sculpture. It was a large piece. Charles hadn’t returned to see it finished and Erik hadn’t offered.

But perhaps it was Erik who wanted Frost? Artists must find inspiration where they must. Still, the idea that Erik might be longing for Emma Frost was unexpectedly sad even as it pained Charles. He did not wish Erik unhappiness.

He looked at Emma Frost again, blond, blue-eyed and beautifully imperious. The church had his own freedoms, but even freedoms did not dispose of a man’s natural inclinations.

“Erik’s not a spy,” Charles answered Emma and then excused himself. Ignorance was becoming too terrible to bear.

It was easy enough to find anyone if he let himself, but Erik sat alone, a strangely lonely figure in the firelit streets swarming with celebration. He wore a small mask: an inhuman face with ceramic cheekbones down which a thread of silver had been lazily drawn.

St. Irene celebrated the multitudes on earth. Sometime in history, people have taken it up to mean multitudes within as well as every man might contain a confusion of identities. In the morning, all might be excused or as attributed as the work of another. We were never the men we could be.

Charles swallowed and approached Erik. He had sketchpad on his lap while his other hand was a piece of charcoal, yet he was staring at some faraway place.

“Erik, are you well?

Through the eyeholes of the mask, Erik’s gaze met his.

“I saw a duke dancing with scullery maid,” he said. “A fool who sat at the head of the table, another with such an expression on his face imagining that a dream would not end.” His eyes travelled down Charles. “You’ve no costume or no mask. Is it not allowed?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Charles answered. “We wear these habits as our dignities, but also as a warning to others. Not all of our Gifts are benign during heightened emotions.”

“I saw Scott slipping out,” Erik said speculatively. “He looked very excited.”

Charles sighed. “I did, as well, when I was younger. In the early days, before masks became popular, people did as they liked merely without exchange of names.”

“We all pretend, in one way or another.” Erik said. “But I look at you, so sure, so kind, so deeply certain of yourself and your place. There are no dangers in Genosha. I am grateful for your patronage, for the sanctuary you’ve granted. Everything is beautiful here, peaceful.”

“The Church would not survive on anger. We strive, through our earliest days, for that point between rage and tranquility.” Charles thought of his jealousy. ”I have my own failings. I could be a better man.”

Erik’s expression was indecipherable beneath his mask. “You already are.” His voice softened. ”Perfection.”

Charles thought he misheard. “There had never been anyone like you,” he began to babble, so that he could not indulge in the pretence that Erik had said what Charles wished to hear. “I only wish that there could be some way to show everyone. You could take on a second patron, Emma. That is, Cardinal Frost, if you desire. She could afford better prestige for your work. There’s no contract between us. I am not your lord and you’re well-established enough now that no one would mind where you come from.”

“Cardinal Frost?”

“She’s the figure in the embrace.”

In this vague way, Charles referred to the work that haunted his thoughts every time he saw it, but Erik ‘s eyes widened then started apologizing. He took off his mask and threw it aside.

“She commissioned me the work. I wasn’t sure if I should undertake it since you’re my patron, but you hadn’t said I could not, or so she said.”

“How could I-” Charles said, helpless, facing Erik, thinking that Frost had in fact offered Erik a patronage he had refused. “You deserve fame, recognition, anything you want.” He stopped. “What happened to the piece?”

“I destroyed it. You never come to see me work anymore, so I thought you must’ve heard and was displeased, but you didn’t turn me out and I stayed because-”

Charles waited, quite unable to breathe. “Why did you stay?”

“You’re beautiful, Cardinal Xavier,” Erik answered; there was a quiver in his voice that Charles found intolerable. “And I think, I would not see anything or anyone as beautiful again if I leave.”

Not even in heaven, Charles remembered from their conversation. He had been flattered before, but he had paid for all his compliments in gold or favors. He exhaled softly. “Erik-” he said, and did not finish. He reached out his hand. Erik took it in silence.

The streets were loud and crowded, with people brandishing tankards and torchlight. Charles was very aware of the nearness and warmth of Erik’s body as they made their way through the throng.

The household was quiet. Charles led him through the atrium, then, grown shy, stopped in the office outside his bedroom. Seeing suddenly his desk, his chairs, the folders and papers of his business, however, he wavered.

“You’ve no obligations to me. My patronage is not contingent upon-” The pleasant erotic haze in his thoughts had not left. His body _ached_ to clasp Erik against him.

Erik was frowning, leaning closer. His cheekbones were flushed. A blush extended all the way down to the ties of his shirt. “Charles?”

Charles tried to muster his arguments. He could smell Erik. "You echo the divine.”

“What are you talking about?” Erik’s hands were on his arms. The perfection of his face was close; his lips seemed to promise to be very soft and then it was. It was warm, too, and slightly wet. His tongue was hot, licking insistently at the seam of Charles’ mouth until it opened and they were breathing into each other, their bodies shifting closer together. Charles grabbed Erik’s hair, then sought the ties of his clothes. It would be easy work, except then he had to breathe and the cool air reminded him where he was, whom he was with.

Erik could not be dismissed. With an effort, he pushed at Erik’s chest, then as Erik blinked down at him, extricated himself from his arms. 

“You’re tired, Erik. Go rest. I shall see you the morning.”

“Will you?” Erik asked darkly, his hair in disarray, the laces of his doublet a mess, his arousal visibly straining beneath his rumpled clothes. 

“For breakfast,” Charles clarified after a moment.

Without saying anything else, Erik left. Charles retreated into his room. He splashed water on his face, but the night was hot, and the water without ice.

He leaned his forehead against the wood of the large mirror. The wood was scented and became irritating. He stepped back and surveyed himself. He had worn his white cassock and there were smudges of soot and very visibly, handprints: parts of palm, tips of fingers, crowding around his arms, his shoulders, around his collar, around his waist.

Charles imagined if those smudges were on his own skin. If those hands had been on his skin, he was more pale than his clothes. He wondered if Erik would find the contrast beautiful or once he had him, find another. Every sincerity and every beauty was only true in the moment.

And Charles wanted Erik more than just for a moment’s happiness.

-=-=


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of torture and imprisonment and a corrupt system.

-=-=

“Are they hippocampi nests?”

“According the doctors of the study and my own research, for a similar type of egg, the location, the dimensions, and the colorings indicate that they’ve been laid for at least half a year and are so far living. Hatching could perhaps be expected in another half year.”

It did not escape Charles, or, by the whispering around him, everyone else at the court, that the question had not been answered in full. The room fell quiet as Storm directed her question to Charles. “And what does the Bishop of Hammer Bay say? Is she aware of nesting activity near her guardianship?”

“Raven has written that she knows nothing of them.”

Azazel made a sound that was half disbelief and half annoyance. “Bishop Raven Xavier, who consider chasing after unicorns good sport, has no idea whether there’s a nest of monsters near her? What have you been doing as the keeper of the foremost library of the land, McCoy, if you cannot do your duty and supply knowledge when we need it? Surely Raven’s not distracting you.”

Hank McCoy, standing in the aisle between the seats, blushed until his fur took on a deep purple tinge.

Azazel’s tail whistled sharply through the air. McCoy cringed, making an absurd attempt for his leonine form to become smaller.

“What are you suggesting, Azazel?” Charles said warily, ignoring the grateful look. “That my sister is lying?”

“She can disguise herself as whoever and whatever she wishes. She doesn’t have to be blue, her manners shift as easily as she changes form.”.

“And you can travel great distances in a moment. What of it?”

Azazel glared, then crossed his arm and looked away. When Raven chased after unicorns when she was younger, after Charles had located her, Azazel had always been the one sent to retrieve her, grumbling. When Raven was nineteen, Azazel had come back injured, his side gored. Raven had felt guilty and nursed Azazel herself but she he was well again, she avoided him. It was then Raven asked Charles to stay out of her mind. Azazel’s resentment never cooled.

“None of it changes the fact that here is a nest of monsters in Hammer Bay, which belongs to the Church had been her first capital,” Emma said. “Therefore we can do as we please with them, as it is ours, we can destroy them. The matter is simple.”

“Cardinal Frost, hippocampi belong to the Sea-Farers. By ancient agreement, we neither hunt nor kill what is theirs,” Storm said from the dais.

“By that very agreement, they do not enter the boundaries of Genosha.”

A vigorous chorus of agreement ensued.

Logan’s voice rose. “You may be a rock, Cardinal Frost, and be as pitiless as one for creatures you know to be a people’s livelihood and not merely beasts of war, but not all of the church has your gift and none of Genoshan’s citizens have such protection. If we’re to march an army to Hammer Bay, even teleport them, it would be news carried to every harbor and no secret to the various dukes and kings who might not easily agree to a precedence of the Church destroying nests without consulting the claimants. If they accuse us of war, or worse, accuse each other of war, what then? Real war is not a matter of costumes, poetry, and applause, Cardinal.”

“Yet war undertaken by us is war fought with holy purpose. It is the principle of the matter,” Frost argued. ”The Sea-Farers dominate the sea with their monsters. They’re also heretics. No duke or king would not side with the masters of the hippocampi.”

“But if they wish to master the masters of the hippocampi, the current balance of power would be lost,” Charles pointed out. “Alliance would shift and if dragons could be ferried by sea, warfare changes forever. Spanish expansion would go unchecked. We have no idea of hippocampi’s habits or whether the eggs, if they are indeed of the hippocampi, are results of natural or artificial husbandry, by the Sea-Farers themselves or another party. And since Shaw’s decree we’ve no embassy with them so we do not know.”

“So shall we allow threat and rebellion to breed on our doorstep? All monsters hate us. All those who has mastery over them challenge us. We must show our strength.”

“The Church should not take itself to war when it can avoid it. Only a fool would cry for war in peacetime.”

Emma took on her diamond form. “Cardinal Xavier, I wonder at your frustration when you seem to lie down so willingly for any riff-raff to do as he likes.”

People began shouting as Charles raised his hand to his temple.

“Enough!” Storm’s voice rose like thunder through the din echoing in the council chamber. “There will be no war based on rumors and speculations, nor will the Church condone challenge to its laws. War is always inevitable in this corrupt world but will be undertaken by us if and only when necessary. We will make no decisions before Cardinal Munoz complete his assignment and can tell us more from the Venetian and Genoese courts.”

She made her instruction to the secretary and to McCoy. “Inform Bishop Raven Xavier to go to Ostia. There are ports there where the Sea-Farers trade. In disguise, ask them about Hammer’s Bay. If the Sea-Farers means war, we will address them. If the nests are part of the ineffable nature, we will not defy it.”

Then the council was adjourned and Charles chose to avoid Emma until her words drew him back.

“This display of utter cowardice would never occurred under Shaw,” she was saying to those around her. “He would’ve sent Janos and Azazel and destroyed the nests. There would’ve been quick negotiations with the dukes and kings to embargo the Sea-Farers, let them live off salt-water and fish for violating sacred grounds for a while. There would’ve none of this delay, this hesitation. To think this Church could act so cowardly! Shaw would’ve been ashamed.”

“The Prophet Shaw is dead, Cardinal Frost. And have you forgotten under what circumstances?”

“Monsters and cowardice of his men led to his death,” Emma said, stubborn. Charles shook his head. Shaw had been trapped by a herd of hippocampi, untethered from their ships. Anyone who entered the sphere Shaw’s powers had created off an island in the Cylades perished so none had dared. The records note him as drowned.

“It may be pity no one like you had been born to help him,” Charles said, “but when he lived, he burned the sky and poisoned the seas. He would’ve burned the earth, too, and nearly did it entirely. Did you not read starvation and famine before Storm took her name? Or see the craters of what use to be fields and forests?”

“He was protecting us. Without a demonstration of our powers, the world would’ve set the Gifted upon each other, making their own doctrines divine writ, making their own cults and heresies into churches so that we’re the ones named monsters and demons.“

“What is a church without those whom we protect? on whom we expect faith? We are not warlords. Have you no pity for the soldiers who might die only because of a command? Can you not be merciful? The hippocampi cannot even thrive on land!”

“Every man does his duty on earth and fulfill the order and rule nature gives him. Mercy and pity are merely an injustice the weak expect of the strong,” Frost replied. “The church must uphold its own laws even if you cannot see it, Charles, you and your siding with monsters. Everyone’s seen your artist’s work. Even if they do not know you’re his patron, they should. He sculpts monster and depicts the Prophet Shaw in Hell.”

“Does he?” Charles asked, suddenly curious more than annoyed. Erik didn’t even believe in Hell. “It’s not blasphemy and Shaw was not popular.”

Truthfully, few of Shaw’s busts or even portraits remain even in the palace. His reign was as close to an autocratic rule of terror as any experienced by the people of Genosha and beyond. In the aftermath of the fall of the Roman Empire, he had ensured the survival of the Church, expanded its influence, and laid down many of its laws, but his methods had been questionable at best and in his legacy deaths and devastation weighed heavily. Charles doubted that anyone outside the church would’ve recognized that narrow and unpleasant face. That Erik would know it was surprising enough, though perhaps Shaw and his burning of the Sea-Farers’ ships five centuries ago lent attraction to the idea of eternal suffering. Everyone could be converted.

“It hurts the dignity of the Church,” Emma said. “To think, when Prophet Shaw had laid the foundations for us to-”

“It’s time for you to realise that Prophet Shaw will never live again to recognize your devotion, Cardinal Frost.” A few listening smirked. Emma’s fascination with the figure and his dramatic but terrible Gift that had been notorious since the schoolroom. Charles continued, “And if a few bronzes can tarnish the dignity of the Church, then I don’t see much point of calling it the authority of all laws on earth.”

Emma smiled. Belatedly, Charles remembered that she hated to be mocked. “You,” she said, voiceless, “I don’t see anywhere in lovely Erik’s art.”

-=-=

Charles dined at the palace with the small council and the delegates from Hammer Bay. McCoy brought his own cutlery to use and spoke more animatedly about Raven and her energy in cultivating abandoned lands than he perhaps ought, but Azazel was away and even Emma was impressed when he related the strategies the Old Church used for aerial combat using the cheeses and fruit pastries. Hank was soft-spoken, despite appearances, and had a disconcerting tendency to relay the development of siege-weapons and healing balms without change of breath. Charles hoped Raven was careful. He would be more difficult to dismiss than Azazel.

Erik was not in when Charles returned, which was disappointing, but not unexpected. Charles chose not to think on it; he sat down at his study, wrote letters, pored over maps, and set Scott a research exercise in the household library for anything relevant to hippocampi before deciding to send a simpler note wishing Raven well. She had the scholars, McCoy, and the nests, and soon, speech with the Sea-Farers themselves, while Charles would call upon nothing but rumors and superstitions from so far away.

It was quiet when he sealed his letter. He stepped out into the hall, but saw from the mark on the candle that the night was already half-gone. He turned to his own room, where the open door showed light already dimmed, the covers turned down on his cold bed.

Charles sighed and glanced at the small stack of books in his personal library, collected at great expense over the years. He washed his hands and was drying them when he heard a commotion from the courtyard.

Distantly, he heard a door shutting. His steward appeared at his door a moment later, cap-askew, half-dressed and irritated. He straightened when he saw Charles was still at his desk.

“The porter informs me that Cavalier Richards is here. He says Erik Lehnsherr has been arrested,” Then added, with evident disapproval, “Cavalier Richards is very drunk.”

“What is the crime?” Charles asked, standing and pulling on a robe. Richards involvement sounded like something from Emma’s grudge, though he didn’t think she could resort such an underhanded way .

“It seems to be brawling, disturbing the peace,” the steward was saying, which explained nothing and made Charles hurry his steps. Erik,his Gift, and brawling seemed a volatile combination.

They arrived at the courtyard, where a few of his household guards stood with a couple of men. There were curious minds awoke and peeking through the windows. It would’ve been better if they were not inside, but it was too late. Charles addressed the lanky figure in the center. “Cavalier Richards.”

“Your Eminence,” Richard bowed. “I apologise for disturbing you. It’s purely a misunderstanding.” To his credit, Richards looked suitably embarrassed, though he was swaying slightly on his feet.

Genoshan nights were seldom serene. A mixture of pious and political business bringing in travelers filled the taverns and inns. And even when the roads were bad, workshops must be tended through the night and salons, intellectual or otherwise, often did not end until late. It was still summer, between visitors, miscommunication, incendiary topics, and abundance of food and drink, arguments and conflicts were not unusual.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No.” Richards managed to even look apologetic. “But Lord Marco is demanding that the magistrate try the case. He’s accused Erik of stealing a ruby.”

“Marco! A ruby?”

Lord Marco was Charles’ mother’s husband, Kurt. Charles had met Kurt once during her funeral rites and read his disappointment in learning that Charles’ birth father had willed the entire Xavier estate to Charles and the church except for an annuity and a house for his widow for as long as she was alive. After her death, Kurt left the city with his son. Charles had heard he was killed soon after while soldiering for France. He had not heard Marco’s name in many years.

“Cain Marko,” Richards supplied, “Kurt Marco’s son, apparently.”

“Where is Erik now?”

“The city prison.”

Charles blanched.

“I tried to explain that you are his patron,” Richards said, rubbing his hands. “It was a misunderstanding, that was all. Marco was buying rounds and there were words exchanged. Erik didn’t take the ruby and he didn’t start the fight. I would vouch for it.” Richards ignored the way his manservant was pulling at his elbow. His torn sleeve became noticeable. “I’ll accompany you to present the matter again.”

“Indeed,” Charles said coldly. Erik was arrested, Richards was free. The favoritism was blatant. He ordered a horse to be saddled.

“Your Eminence,” his steward started. Then, as Charles headed the way of the stables, hissed, “Cardinal Xavier, you’re not dressed.”

The buttons of his cassock had never seemed more unnecessary. It would be a matter of thought to free Erik, literally, but interfering in the running of the city with his Gift was, if not forbidden, at least carefully frowned upon. Manipulation of the justice system- 

Charles shook his head, heart pounding. He himself was not subject to the Civil Courts, but Erik could be. Genosha’s laws were not gentle to thieves, especially when the one making an accusation was a lord. The ruby could be a pretext if Frost was involved and she knew that Erik should not be in the city and...

He braced himself and started searching through the thoughts of everyone in the prison, growing nauseated by the moment.

By the time they had roused the necessary people into motion, Charles was almost trembling with anger. He couldn’t find Erik.

There was another man in the office of the magistrate, Charles ignored him and demanded the release of Erik Lehnsherr. 

“Your Eminence” the magistrate stammered, “we didn’t know that he was under your protection. We would’ve never offend-”

“But, milord, what of his theft of my ruby? I’ve presented and even written up my accusation.”

Charles whirled around. Cain was broader and heavier than he had last seen him and garbed as a knight. On his chest were decorations of various orders. On his neck was an ugly bruise.

“He didn’t take your ruby, Marco. You have it. It’s not lost. Regardless, I’ll pay a recompense. Drop your charges.” Charles said, imperious, then turned to the judge again. “Dismiss the case of petty theft. And if it would make the justice more swift, I will pay the fine and sign the peace. Where is Erik Lehnsherr?”

Then Marco started laughing. “So this,” he said, pointing at Charles, “is what Genoshan justice has become? The ruby is no mere jewel. It’s from the Temple of Cyttorak and obtained at great cost. I demanded the full process as befit of grand larceny.”

The magistrate looked fearfully at Charles. “Your Eminence, Erik Lehnsherr didn’t mention your name before Lord Marco made his denunciation else we would never-”

“Who are your witnesses?” Charles asked Marco.

“My friends. There are others who saw that the jewel dropped out of Erik’s clothes. I will produce more of them them at the trial.”

There was nothing more to be said. Rather, if Charles said anything, he alone would emerge from the room with his reason intact. He turned away from Marco and ordered to be taken to see Erik. 

Charles tension eased a little when he realised that Erik hadn’t been taken for questioning, but was in a cell by himself, one of the older ones built when the civil courts still tried the Gifted. It was seldom used these days. The visions Charles had gathered of lice, rats, and clanking chains did not come to pass. Apparently though Erik never admitted that Charles was his patron, they were sufficiently wary of Richards’ claim. The place was a little dusty, that was all.

More importantly, Erik looked mostly unharmed. There was a cut above his upper lip but it had already stopped bleeding. Charles sank the turnkey to a doze before entering the cell.

“Are you all right?” Charles asked, curling his hands into Erik’s shoulders, resisting the impulse to pull him against himself, uncertain whether it would be welcomed. There was a slash in his doublet and his hose was torn, but Erik nodded warily. “What happened?” Richards account was confused. Marco’s account was ridiculous. Charles had plucked their memories, but found those, like in the minds of all easily influenced men, colored and distorted by their own narratives.

It was much as Richards told it up until Erik’s exchange with Marco. “Then he said that Genosha’s indeed full of miracles, more than any he had seen though he had traveled the world: woman at the head, beasts in clothes, even a Ganymede under a red hat. He claimed that Cardinal Xavier’s Gift is miracles under the sheets.”

Charles blinked up at Erik, who was blushing. Telepathy was not an _overt_ Gift, that was true-

“You are not a Ganymede. I meant what I said, before.” Erik added, “but it’s not only the way you look. I disagreed. He threw his cup at me.”

Charles smiled slightly. “So you defended my honor,” he said, feeling warm and a little light-headed from the sentiment.

He knew, without Erik admitting it, that there had been more lethal metal all around them. Marko should count himself fortunate that there was only a bruise. The city gendarmes had interfered when swords came out of their sheaths. They had recognized Richards, Erik had refused to name Charles when Marco denounced him, out of some chivalrous idea that it was to protect his patron’s good name.

Charles wanted to tell him that his name could not be worn out by use, not by Erik for any reason. He didn’t. Erik’s concern touched him and for a moment he didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t expect to cause you so much trouble,” Erik said after a moment.

“If anyone’s at fault, it’s mine,” Charles replied, determined. “Let’s leave now.”

“What of the charges?”

Charles wriggled his fingers at the side of his head. “No one will remember. It would be a dream. The magistrate will dismiss the case. Marko will withdraw his accusation.” His face darkened. “Officially, it would be because of an agreement.” He headed toward the door.

“No.”

“What?”

“Everything’s written down,” Erik explained. “They read it that I would have to appear before the court. Witnesses would be called for testimony. Are you going to erase the records as well?”

“I would manage for them to become lost.”

Erik shook his head. “Then it’s as good as a confession. There are too many people. I can’t have your reputation sullied for no reason.”

“Erik, your well-being is not no reason!” Charles looked around more critically. The cell was old and dusty, but now he saw the cracks in the ceiling, the holes in the walls. There was only a hard bench and a bucket of water. Furthermore, he had not much faith that the magistrate would not sucuumb to any “request” Marco would make. After all, they had imprisoned Erik without bail simply because of Lord Marco’s rank and despite his evident intoxication. “You can’t stay here.” Charles changed his tone. “Don’t you want to come back?” he asked soothingly, but Erik merely firmed his mouth. Seeing that expression, Charles relented. “What will you have me do?”

“It’s only a few days,” Erik said, as if Charles would be the one to suffer unnecessarily. “I’ve stayed in worse places.”

So Charles had no choice except to leave and make it known that if Erik Lehnsherr was harmed, the perpetrator would find himself in the greatest displeasure to Cardinal Xavier and the church.

When he left however, careful to order a door be left open in the passageway to the cell so that his telepathy could reach for Erik, Cain was just saddling his horse, still clumsy with drink.

“A thief sheltering another,” Cain said, jerking the bridle almost brutally. He said to companions. “This is his Eminence, Cardinal Xavier, the man who stole my birthright and had his exotic catamite steal our gem. You all see the miracle, a sea-”

“Have a care of what you say of the church,” Charles faced him. “You stand in Genosha, not some barbaric land.”

“I fear no church or churchmen,” Marco said loudly. “Genosha is not very big after you’ve seen the world, though it is indeed very rich. Ten, twenty monsters would suffice. I could call upon dragons and raze this city to the ground”

Churchmen did not go about armed. Charles drew a sword from the saddle nearest to him, unhorsed Cain, then pointed the blade against his neck. Almost instantly, his own household men-at-arms surrounded Cain’s companions.

In the center of the circle, Charles flicked his wrist and cut the order of nobility Marco wore at his chest. “Cain Marco, you will stand on trial for treason.”

-=-=

The story was across Genosha within the day.

If the identity of Erik Lehnsherr’s patron had ever been in doubt, Cardinal Xavier’s midnight ride and his challenge and denunciation of Lord Cain Marko laid all speculations to rest.

It was more confusing that Erik Lehnsherr was apparently sculptor instead of a mathematician or a philosopher. As a compromise of sorts, it was generally believed that he was an engineer.

The first person to relay the latest gossip to Charles was Emma Frost, who accosted him with a young man in a lawyers robe behind him. “Richards told me what happened. I’m very much in awe of your restraint and so is, I think, most of the clerical lawyers.” She then introduced the man behind her. “Douglas Ramsay, doctor of law, an ordinary prelate at the moment, but a marvel with words and language.” Seeing Charles frown, she first appeared confused, then grew angry.

“Cardinal Xavier! Your self-centeredness astounds me sometimes. As much as I disagree with _your_ views, I would not risk the loss of one of Erik Lehnsherr’s talents from Genosha despite his questionable themes. And even if the church’s patronage cannot ensure protection for an artist like Erik from a traitorous thug like Marco, then where would we be?”

She swept away and left Ramsay behind.

On Tuesday, Erik was released.

There would be a crowd, Bobby warned him. Scott ran ahead and confirmed it. If Charles had his way, there would be bonfires, pealing bells, and cannonades to greet Erik. Acting the truth of his affections had never seemed more important or appealing. He didn’t. The pomp would’ve delayed them.

“You are hurt.” Charles cried, seeing the blood and the bruises. Erik had sounded well only two nights ago. “Your hands!”

“Are you only worried for my hands?” Erik asked unhappily, glancing at all the curious faces around them.

“I...” Charles worried about all of him but did not know how to begin. He wanted to shove his worry aside but did not know how. He steered Erik into the litter instead. “Let’s get you home.”

“Home,” Erik repeated and a swell of memory overwhelmed Charles. The strangest longing came upon him: the cries of gulls, the rise of sun across glittering silver, the sharp scent of what Charles thought must be the sea.

Charles scarcely daring to take his eyes off Erik. There was a distant look in his eyes that was worrying. He wasn’t tortured, Charles knew. At least, he thought so

He had not expected the walls to be so intolerably close and they didn't break. There were no metal within. His hands throbbed.

Charles shook himself apart and awake. That thought had not been his own. Through the open window, beams of sunlight played around the swirls of dust. Erik had been dozing against his shoulder when they returned and they waited for the bath to be prepared. Beside him, Erik stirred then stretched.

Steam was rising from the bath. Charles stood to give Erik some privacy. He faced the wall. Cupid’s naked sleeping body mocked him. Charles removed his glance to the frame instead.

There was only the soft sounds of the splashes of water behind him for a while before he heard a pained groan.

“Erik, did they hurt you?”

Erik’s leaned his chin on the side of the tub. “One short drop of the rope,” Erik answered, “with apologies after.”

Charles eyes fell to the red marks on Erik’s wrists. Ramsay had warned him about the proceedings to obtain a full acquittal through denial of the accusation, but it still felt like personal affront. Erik caught the look on Charles’ face. “I’ve had worse being clumsy on the riggings.”

It was the first time Erik had mentioned of his life before Genosha. Charles’ mind had lain entangled in his thoughts the days past and caught, at a distance, the wandering shipboard life that Erik was perhaps unknowingly sharing. Yet while the Prophet’s Court still debated hippocampi, the temptation to dig deeper was always present. And Erik was..or was about to be...his. Or at least, Genosha’s.

“Perhaps I should go,” Charles said, thinking not that he should leave Erik but that his mind need to be apart from Erik’s.

“I’m finished,” Erik said quickly.

“I can have an attendant-” Charles didn’t finish the sentence. He reached for the towel hanging on the rack. There was a bead of water trailing down the side of Erik’s face, joining a rivulet flowing down his neck.

“Stay,” Erik said, and stood from the tub to take the towel.

Helpless, Charles watched muscles play on his body, from shoulder to rib, rib to hip, across the artful divot of the runner’s girdle above his legs, then followed the reddish trail of hair to his cock, heavy and thick between the lean thighs. Charles did not know where to rest his eyes. Beneath his clothes, he began to sweat, his body stirring. He licked his lips then bit his upper one. Erik was hurt, he reminded himself.

He approached Erik, the towel like a shield between them. But there were still the wide exposed shoulders, the sprinkle of faint freckles across collarbone, and then Erik’s damp hands on the sideS of his face.

Charles kissed him, gently at first, his tongue touching now what was a small scar above his mouth, then Erik’s mouth parted beneath his. He smelled faintly of rosewater. Where Charles could touch, the naked skin was smooth and slick. Erik let out of moan as Charles hand pushed hard on the small of his back and their hips pressed together.

Reason had fled before the urgent need of his body. Charles wasn’t uncertain whether he wished to step into the water or drag Erik out. He pulled at an arm then stepped back abruptly when he felt the sharp wrench on his shoulder.

Erik stared at him, astonished, his pale eyes already gone dark with arousal.

There was a knock on the door. Scott’s timid voice informing him that a messenger had come from the Prophet. Charles wished to stay, to make sure that Erik was all right, and said so.

“Go,” Erik said, suddenly indecipherable. “It might be urgent.”

“I’ve ordered a physician for you,” Charles said. “Make all your bodily complaints, no matter how minor. Think of me and I’ll be by your side if you need it.”

Erik smiled for the first time since he had been released.“Do you promise?” His tone was light, but his silvery eyes hooked deep until Charles felt almost pained from the sensation.

So Charles promised.

-=-=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The justice system here is freely adapted from late Renaissance Florentine system. "Strappato" is a medieval torture that continued to be used today. While history seems to indicate it as being one of the more mild form of torture in Florence ( _Criminal Justice and Crime in Late Renaissance Florence, 1537-1609_ says "a form of torture that many Tuscans evidently did not find particular taxing" ) and Erik seems fine with it, I am in no way condoning its use in reality for torture.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone on XMenTales chat for the world building help.


End file.
